Blood and Crushed Veneer
by BerryliciousCheerio
Summary: When one's life is death, things tend to get a little messy. DISCONTINUED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. Prologue

**Alright, so I've finally decided to jump on the Avengers train and roll with it. This stupid idea has been eating away at me for days, now, and I've decided it is better for my mental health to write it out, and stop discussing it in great detail with the eviller, crazier me that occupies my frontal lobe. **

**Now, some warnings; I know this idea has been done before, but I hope to bring a new spin to the basic idea, which will become increasingly obvious as time goes on. Fingers crossed! Also, this is simply the prologue, but the next chapter will go straight to , so be prepared. :) **

**I think that that's it, so, without further ado...**

**Disclaimer: Um, do I look like I own the Avengers? No? Well, what-EVER, at least I own my characters.**

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**_commence_**

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Her name is Katya.

Or so she's told, but, honestly? They call her so many names, she's not sure what to believe. But, facts;

Her name is Katya. She is seven years old. Her mother is dead. Her father is dead.

Two of the sparring coaches, Galina and Sofia call her Nadya (_hope_) with a sad look in their eyes.

She has killed one, two, three, seven men, mostly accidentally. Her favorite color is white, which is good, considering she is surrounded by snow. She hates the color red, which is bad, considering her future profession.

Feliks, the one that people call _lider_, he calls her Serafina (_burning one_) and smiles coldly.

She likes cats, wants a little grey and black kitten, but doesn't trust herself with living things anymore. She likes kasha for breakfast, khalva for dessert. She hates Irina and Inna, the pretty blonde twins that have the beds to her left in the dormitory. She loves Lev, the boy that brings the warm coats and boots when winter approaches.

Lots of the girls call her Natassia (_resurrection_) and laugh, like it's some big joke that she's not in on.

She likes the summer most, when the ones in control let them go outside for an hour a day. It is winter, and Irina took most of the down out of her coat.

The cook calls her Mariya (_their rebellion_) and gives her just a little extra of whatever is being served for dinner.

Masha is–

_Was_ her only friend, but she's gone now–

Didn't follow the rules, didn't swear her allegiance loud enough, maybe, but those are just rumors.

She gets along with Viktoriya and Helenka well enough, but they're sisters and a bit older, and she is not one of them. Her hair is a fiery red in the sun, and a dull rust color the rest of the time. She's weighs less than she should. She hates her curls. She is short.

Inna snores loudly at night. Asya, the brunette closest to the door, she whimpers in her sleep. Helenka breathes heavily. She knows the other girls' names, but does not wish to list them.

Her name is Katya. She is seven years old. Her mother is dead. Her father is dead…

Katya rolls over in her bed, the frame squeaking loudly, and she rolls her eyes at the various grunts and groans of displeasure from her dorm-mates.

They can sleep as easily as they can breathe. She, however, is plagued with night terrors, and finds that unless she waits until she is absolutely exhausted, she will wake screaming.

The facts are not helping, not like Masha said they would.

She laces her hands over her abdomen, wincing slightly as the fresh bruises were disturbed. Pavel, her trainer, he keeps telling her to learn to tuck into herself and roll to the side, but she has yet to master the move.

She starts again.

Her name is Katya. She is seven years old. Her mother is dead. Her father is dead.

Two of the sparring coaches, Galina and Sofia call her Nadya (_hope_) with a sad look in their eyes.

She has killed one, two, three, seven men, mostly accidentally. Her favorite color is white, which is good, considering she is surrounded by snow…

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"Stark, we're approximately two minutes out."

"I gotcha, Hawk. God, is that really all snow?"

Natasha rolls her eyes and snaps, "Yes, it is. Now, could you please pay attention to the mission?"

"Jeez, Romanoff, cool your jets. Barton, could you please get your lady to calm down?"

Clint smirks and says, "I'm not getting involved in this."

"Wuss."

Natasha, who may already be a little on edge due to her current mission, says dangerously, "Tony, do you really wish to continue this?"

"Nope, I rather like my face the way it is, thanks. Alright, cameras are a go. They're ready to roll when you are." Clint thanks him quickly, and after a hurried "Good luck," from Tony, he flips the video feed off.

"Ready Tasha?"

Her eyes narrow as they pass over her former prison. That's all the answer he needs.

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**Translations;**

_**Lider - Leader**_

_**Kasha - Russian Porridge**_

_**Khalva - Syrupy Walnut Dessert**_

**And that, my friends, is the end of my brain-child's first chapter. I do hope you review, as I'd like to hear your ideas on where the story is going, as well as how you think it's going so far (I know, only one chapter in, but still...). **

**This is my first time writing something even remotely action-like, so we'll see how it goes with chapter two. Anyway, thank you for taking time to read all the way to the bottom of this A/N, it's much appreciated, as are reviews!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter two, because I'm writing about five chapters ahead of you guys. :) I feel so prepared!**

**Disclaimer: Nope. My awesome-level has not shot up because of a recent aquiring of the Avengers franchise.**

**Warnings: People die. Like, for reals, son. Also, if you've got issues with children killing people (when not possessed by the devil), LOOK AWAY.**

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Katya is woken by the obnoxious whoop-whooping of the intruder alarms in the compound. Blearily, she looks around, and sees that all the other girls are jumping out of bed and grabbing their weapons.

She figures that it will be safer for her to follow suit, so she swings her legs out of her bed and sits up, begins to stand just to be knocked down by Irina pushing past her.

She lets out a feral growl, but Irina just glares and hisses, "Malyĭ umiraet pervym, Katka." _The small die first._

She bristles at the remark and for a moment contemplates aiming her firearm at Irina's flawless forehead, just to see those pretty blue eyes widen in fear, but her own rising panic propels her forward, all elbows and sharp angles as she pushes past those in front of her. Helenka sees her and reaches out a hand, which she grabs onto quickly, immediately feeling a little better.

Helenka and Viktoriya are two of the best ones in their level, and they've both got Uzi Micros, compared to her two measly 9mms. The weapons are good enough when it comes down to it, but she's only got thirty eight rounds between the two of them, and the Phantom's a bitch to use.

The girls cluster together in the dining hall, and _Lider_ Feliks stands tall at the front of the room. He tells them in his booming voice, "Approximately twenty enemy soldiers have infiltrated the compound. Our safety has been compromised. The safety of our goal has been compromised. You have trained for years for a moment like this."

His eyes sweep the room, and is she just imagining them lingering on her?

He says firmly, "Shoot to kill."

With that, they're off, all one hundred of them marching towards their enemy. Katya's fingers clench around her weapons as she moves through the halls.

Helenka and Viktoriya are leading, and she's walking backwards behind them to keep anyone from sneaking up on them. She hears the click of a weapon and whirls around to find her friends in a standoff with two men in black. She trains her guns on them as well, but honestly, she doesn't want to shoot them. She can see the wedding band glinting off of one's hand, and the other looks like a good man.

Helenka says in her perfect English –she's always envied how well she picked up other languages– "Lower your weapons. Surrender to the Guard and we will see to it that you are treated with mercy."

Translation;

We won't drag your deaths out.

The man with the wedding ring says in equally flawless Russian, "Ostavʹte svoĭ oruzhiya, devochek." _Drop your weapons, girls_.

He doesn't _sound _like a killer.

But none ever do.

Viktoriya's arm tenses –oh god, no– but the man with the ring anticipates it and sends a bullet through her skull.

Katya recoils from the blood and brain matter that spray back at her, and, as Helenka drops to her knees next to her sister, she makes quick work of the men, ridding herself of two of her rounds.

She hears Helenka mutter, "Ublyudki." _Bastards_.

When she looks up, her eyes are red, and she simply nods down the hall, but it's enough. She leaves the girl to tend to her sister's body and swears that these _Americans_ will pay for their lack of conscience.

The hallways are white, as always, and it's really rather creepy, walking alone. Soon enough, though, she hears the sounds of a battle, gun fire and feral screams, the smell of blood and death heavy in the stagnant air.

She rounds the corner and lets off two more rounds on each weapon, killing one man and causing another to fall to his knees. She ends him quickly, and moves on.

There are more men than Feliks had said, and only about thirty of the girls. She assumes that the others are still patrolling the halls, but then again, with Viktoriya's death as evidence, they very well might be dead.

She joins one of the girls around her age, Dessa, who's fighting one over-sized man, and ends up holstering her weapons because she can't get a clear shot at him. Dessa bites his ankle and the big man crumples. Katya snaps his neck quickly, shrugging off the cold feeling she gets whenever she kills.

The girls exchange a brief smile, a shared knowledge, and they move on.

She goes where she's needed, sometimes shooting, sometimes snapping necks, landing punches where she can, biting exposed flesh when necessary.

She kicks one man in the back of the neck, effectively paralyzing him, and pauses a moment to catch her breath and survey the battlefield.

The enemies seem reluctant to fight the girls, and because of that, the odds are stacked in their favor. But, she can see at least ten of her fellow students lifeless on the ground, Irina included, and she can't help but think evilly, _Smallest die first my ass_.

There's still about twenty men fighting, of the forty that were there, and the ratios are backsliding, she thinks. She backs herself into a corner, away from the melee and fires seven rounds, hitting six of her targets dead on, and another in the knee, dropping him to a level that the girl he's fighting can kill him at.

She stretches her hand, sore from the fighting, and prepares for her next kill.

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The compound was redesigned; that, at least, is obvious.

Natasha looks around critically, noting the wear on the main building, the stone obviously beginning to crumble. Without the KGB as financiers, the Red Room had faltered, it seemed.

A static-y voice comes over her com, saying, "Widow, group four has breached the building. Are you and the Hawk joining the party?"

She feels Clint brush his fingers against hers, and she smiles briefly at him before saying, "No. We've got other things to attend to."

Fury had been clear in his instructions. Capture Feliks Lebedev with as few casualties as possible. And, if she remembers correctly, Lebedev was always a cowardly bastard, who would most likely be hiding out in his office, away from the fight.

She's right, of course.

As they near a smaller building about a hundred yards away from the main building, she can see a light on, and a shadow moving. Clint reaches back to grab an arrow, but she holds up her hand, silently telling him that Lebedev is hers.

The door bursts open with a bang, and she smirks at her handiwork, lowering her leg and watching as Lebedev scrambles for a weapon, any weapon.

She raises her gun and says without any preamble, "This," she shoots him in the shoulder, "is for my parents." She watches him stumble a little, clutching his shoulder as blood seeps through.

"This," she says as she shoots him in the other shoulder, "is for me." His arms go limp at his sides.

"This," she growls when she shoots his left knee, "is for being an asshole."

"And so is this," she adds, shooting his right knee as well.

She aims at his chest, just far enough away from his heart that he won't die, close enough that he thinks he will, and hisses, "This is for my–."

Clint's scream of "TASHA!" startles her.

She whirls around –Lebedev won't be going anywhere soon– to face a tall, dark haired girl and a shorter, blonde girl, both glaring at her and both heavily armed. They can't be much older than thirteen.

The blonde girl peers behind her, and gasps, "_Lider_ Feliks!" her hand flying to her mouth in shock. Lebedev makes a muffled grunt in lieu of a reply, but it's enough to make the girls' glares harden.

Before anyone can say anything, a small, shaky voice asks in quiet Russian, "'Lenka, there's a man tied up…?"

The brunette, Lenka's gaze softens momentarily as she replies, "Leave him, Katya. Go back inside."

There's some rustling, and finally a small, pale, round face appears in the doorway, mostly hidden by the shadows, just a bit of her blood splattered chin and cheek easily seen.

"The enemy men are dead."

"Go back, Katya. _Go!_"

The little girl scowls and backs away for a minute, before returning and saying, "Take hostages, Helenka. Better strategy."

There's another muffled grunt from Lebedev, and Natasha would kick him if she didn't have two Uzis trained on her.

The blonde sneers, "Shut up, Katka. What do you know about strategy?"

Katya's scowl deepens and she growls, "More than your sister, obviously. Inna, if I were you, I'd stop now."

Inna flinches at the girl's words, and Natasha forces herself to stop wondering what happened to these girls. She _knows _what happened to them.

Helenka frowns at her, and lowers her weapon infinitesimally. She elbows Inna and murmurs something quietly, then steps over to block Katya's view. Or, perhaps, block Katya from Natasha's view.

Inna takes the lead, her white blonde hair darkened by the dried blood staining it, and she barks, "Katka, get three of the oldest girls left. Have them bring the chains."

Natasha hears a sound of discontent from behind Helenka, but then there's some more rustling, and she assumes that that means that Katya has left.

Helenka moves to the front of the pair again, and orders, "Drop your weapon."

Natasha complies, simply because she does not want to kill either of these girls. She kicks it over to the pair, and Inna drops to grab it immediately, putting the safety on and tucking it into the waistband of her pants.

Inna smirks and asks, "This is the one that _Lider _Feliks was so scared of? She doesn't look like much."

Natasha smothers a grin. So Lebedev feared her, eh?

Helenka elbows the blonde and whispers, "Inna, hush. She's killed more men than all of us combined."

"She defected. She's weak."

"_Inna_."

The blonde huffs and looks annoyed, shifting her weight from side to side. Ten minutes later, there are footsteps and the sounds of chains dragging on the ground.

The same voice from earlier sounds, signaling Katya has returned with the others, and she says petulantly, "They're here. But, Lenka, the man is gone."

Natasha looks up from her stare down with Inna. Clint was gone? She figures that Fury sent the pilot to pick him up, but still, it stings a little, being left behind.

Helenka's eyes widen and she pushes Inna out of the way, and Natasha sees a flash of red before Helenka blocks the girl from her view. Inna keeps the Uzi aimed, but it's obvious that she, along with Natasha, is intent on hearing the conversation.

"What do you mean, Katya, 'the man is gone'?"

"He was here when I left, but if you and Inna hadn't made me go back…"

"Hush, you. Just...escort the hostage to the cells. Do _not _engage her, Katya. She's killed more than me, you, Inna, all of us."

"And you trust me with her?"

"Take Olga with you."

Helenka's voice is firm, but Katya protests, "She's small."

"Take Feia, then."

Another voice, Feia, Natasha decides, asks, "Excuse me?"

Helenka says, "You're going with Katya to the cells with the hostage."

"Hostage?"

"Our defective sister."

Natasha smirks at the girl's wording and Inna frowns at her, readjusts her grip on her gun. "No smiling," she snaps in halting English.

After a minute of hushed whispering, Helenka reappears behind Inna, gently shouldering her out of the way, so that another girl with dishwater blonde hair could enter.

The girl, Feia, she decides, barks, "Hands behind your back." When her order is obeyed, she continues, "Turn around."

When Natasha obeys this command silently, there's a moment when no one does anything. She knows that they were expecting some sort of resistance from her, but, at this point, it is very clear to her that these girls aren't quite sure of what they're doing, and she figures if she goes quietly now, she can have a better chance at a quiet escape later.

She feels someone snap a pair of plastic handcuffs into place around her wrists. Some chains, she thinks disparagingly. When they shackle her ankles, however, she takes it back.

A little shadow appears in her peripheral vision and tells her, "You can turn around now, miss." There are some scoffs at her polite manner, which Natasha thinks will be an asset for her later on, but whatever.

She turns and sees a ghost.

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**Translation;**

_**Katka - Offensive diminutive form of Katya**_

_**Lider - Leader**_

**Review please!**


	3. Chapter 2

**Nope. Still don't own the Avengers.**

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"You take off the cuffs."

"You're older."

"You're faster."

"I'm smaller. She could kill me easier."

"Exactly my point."

"Feia, please…?"

"You do it, Katka. I'm not dying because of this bitch."

Natasha smirks at the argument happening in front of her –watching these girls argue makes her think that their youth hasn't been completely extinguished by the Red Room, but she smothers her amusement quickly when Katya throws her hands up in the air and turns to her.

Katya mutters, "Please don't kill me," quietly, almost too quiet for Natasha to hear, and goes around behind her, prodding her forward gently. Feia stays behind, arms crossed and dart gun holstered, watching them with guarded eyes.

They walk for a few minutes down the seemingly never ending hallway, and Katya finally says, "Wait here," before slipping in front of her and going to the a keypad embedded in the wall.

After casting a wary glance over her shoulder, the little red headed girl moves to block her typing from Natasha's view. A few moments later, there is a loud beep, and the door to the cell swings open. Katya steps back from the door, and gestures for Natasha to enter, her lips pursed into a thin, grim line.

She follows the silent direction, and once inside, Katya shuts the door behind them. Natasha can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off the girl, and she wants so badly to tell her that she isn't going to hurt her, that she could never hurt the little red haired child that she had, until eleven minutes and forty-seven seconds ago, thought was dead. But right now, she is just the captured Black Widow, and Katya is just the girl volunteered to babysit her.

There's a beat of silence, and Natasha watches as Katya frowns in deep thought, ostensibly deciding how to go about her duties.

It isn't too long after that, that the pucker between the girl's eyebrows smoothes out, and she says as menacingly as a little girl can sound, "If you so much as move without being directed to do so, I'll have you know that I have ten rounds left."

She pats the gun holstered on her left hip –her hands are shaking, Natasha notes– and then advises, "So…don't move."

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She thinks that her hands are more dangerous and chooses to release the ankle shackles first. No one's told her who their hostage is, no one's even bothered to tell her whether or not she's about to die, so she's basing this solely off of appearances.

The woman is around the same age as Galina and Sofia, she thinks, a bit younger than the other sparring coaches, but several years older than the oldest girl in the program. Her hair is red, short, and curly, and Katya can't help but feel a bit relieved that she is not the only person in the world that looks this way.

There are scars on her hands, scars that wind their way up to her wrists, no doubt tracing their way all the way up her arms, but she's wearing this long-sleeved cat suit, so really it's all just her speculation.

She presses her thumb to one of the shackles, and waits for the chip in it to recognize her.

A disembodied, muffled computerized voice states, "Katya Volkova. Level seven, grade five. Approved."

The shackles snap open, scraping the woman's ankle, and Katya mumbles, "Sorry about that," as she picks them up, slipping them into her pocket.

The woman doesn't comment about getting scraped, just says, "Electronic shackles?"

Katya pats her utility belt, searching for her knife, and answers offhandedly, "_Lider_ Feliks's invention. Makes imprisonment a much quicker affair."

"There are other prisoners?"

She finds the knife and slices through the plastic ties with one clean cut, and says, "There were. They're gone, now."

No reaction.

If Katya had less pride, she'd pout.

She walks around towards the door again, and turns back to face the woman, saying, "Meals will be brought to you three times a day." She lowers her voice, and adds, "If I were you, I would steer clear of the buzhenina. Cook tries, but she can't make an edible serving of it."

The woman flashes a small smile at her comment, and with that, Katya leaves, throwing one last wary glance over her shoulder on her way to the door. The woman is still watching her when she closes the door, putting eight inches of iron between them.

Feia is at the other end of the hall, looking remarkably indifferent to her reappearance. She says flatly, "I thought she'd killed you."

Katya makes a face –she was expecting that, but it hurts nonetheless– and brushes past her, entertaining the idea of shaving off all of that dirty blonde hair tonight.

But, no.

Because _Lider_ Feliks already hates her enough, and shaving the hair off one of his favorites will result in a return to the closet, if she's that lucky. But she's never been a lucky girl.

Back up above ground, the dining hall is filled with the wounded, the dead in a pile in the corner. She wanders over to where Helenka is, standing next to Sofia, who is bandaging a cut on Helenka's arm.

Sofia's eyes widen at her appearance, and Katya self-consciously touches a hand to her face, drawing it back quickly when she feels the crust of dried blood.

"It's not mine," she says reassuringly, and Helenka winces. She can't seem to say anything right.

Sofia nods, her black ponytail bobbing with the motion, and pats Helenka's arm, telling her, "You're good to go. Have me change the bandage in two days, alright?" Lenka nods curtly and marches off, veers to the right sharply to cut the pile of dead bodies a wide berth.

And that's when Sofia loses it. She grabs her arm tightly, hauls her off to the kitchen where Galina and Cook are waiting.

Cook's eyes sparkle when she asks, "Is it true, Mariya? Is she here?"

Katya's brow furrows in confusion, and Galina notices, and clarifies, "The Widow, is she here?"

"Who–?"

Sofia says quietly, in shock, "She doesn't know."

"She doesn't know?" Cook asks incredulously, "How does she not know?"

Galina spits out, "Feliks is how. You know he wants her as his pet."

Cook places a soothing hand on the woman's arm, tells her, "Calm yourself, Galina. You never know who could be listening."

She throws a pointed stare across the room, towards the door, and then says gently, "Katyusha, the Widow– do you remember the Battle of New York?"

Katya winces at the word remember, and Cook says, "Oh, never mind. I know you do, _solnyshko_. But, you know the team that saved us all? The– Sofia, what were they called?"

"The Avengers," Sofia supplies, and Cook smiles, her thanks silent and earnest.

She turns back to Katya and says, "The Avengers, Mariya. One of them, the woman, the Black Widow," her ears perk at this, "she was one of us, not so long ago."

"But, Cook, _we_'_re_ Black Widows," Katya says, gesturing behind her at the door, encompassing the dead and the living girls in the other room.

Cook smoothes a hand over her hair gently and says, "Yes, _milaya moya_. You are, but she is _the_ Black Widow. She defected to S.H.I.E.L.D, an agency of the United States, but moya Mariya, she will always be one of us. The woman that was captured, did she have red hair?"

Katya nods.

"Did you see her fight?"

She shakes her head and says, "No one did. Helenka and Inna found her out in the offices with _Lider_ Feliks. She shot him."

Cook stumbles back, and Galina steps forward to catch her, cushion her would-be fall, and help her into one of the chairs. Cook breathes, "It's her. Mariya, it's her."

Katya is beginning to get annoyed with the lack of clarification, and, though she loves Cook dearly, she's _this _close to walking back out to deal with the dead and the living and the battle scars.

Finally, though, Galina says, "We trained with her, Katyusha. And she was always a bit better than the rest."

She rolls her eyes at this, because she's seen Galina and Sofia fight, and they could easily beat anyone. Galina crouches down so that she's eye level with Katya, grabs her face by the chin and forces her to look her in the eye.

"Do you know why we call you Nadya, why Cook calls you Mariya, Katyusha? Why the other girls call you Natassia, why Feliks calls you Serafina? Why he pushes you harder, why you must always be better than the other girls your age? Do you know _why_?"

She shakes her head a little hesitantly, but when Galina opens her mouth to answer, the door to the kitchen bursts open, and Pavel, her trainer, waltzes in.

"Ladies, I do hope that the girl is alright, you've taken an awful long time in here."

Galina stays where she is, keeps her hand on Katya's face, and says angrily, "She is not alright, Pavel. You sent her into battle with the rest of the girls."

"Necessary."

"Forty-seven are dead."

"Also necessary. Come, Katya. Let Nurse attend to your wounds."

He holds out his meaty hand, his eyes glinting in the harsh lighting of the kitchen, and Katya has no choice but to wrench away from Galina and slip her small hand into Pavel's.

He leads her back out to the chaos, but she feels the women's eyes boring into her as she goes.

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It's not until she hears Katya's footsteps fade down the hall that what has just transpired sinks into Natasha, and she stumbles backwards until the backs of her knees hit the bed, and she crumples.

The objective part of her is surveying the room –it's not much of a prison, she thinks distantly; what with the relatively decent bed and white walls– but the other part, the part that's becoming increasingly vocal, it's just running over the same things, again and again.

A little baby with wide blue eyes, one damn mission that she didn't even _want_ to take, a fire that she wishes had killed her, sheet-covered bodies left on the sidewalk because no one quite knew what to do with them, a few _very _large bottles of Russian Standard.

It's hurting her head a little, honestly, the images flashing through her mind's eye rapidly, though that may also be because, at this point, it's been about two days since she's slept, and she's probably edging near dehydration.

In an uncharacteristic move, Natasha draws into herself, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, tucking her chin into her knees. She stays this way until her muscles start cramping, until her arms start shaking, until her spine cries out in protest. She unfurls painstakingly, wincing at the pins and needles starting in her legs and hands, but grateful for the distraction.

She doesn't think that sleep will come easily, and she's right, of course. She lies there, arms crossed over her chest, and tries to avoid going to that place again, but it's hard, even for her, and eventually, she succumbs.

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**Translation;**

_**Katka - Offensive diminutive form of Katya**_

_**Lider - Leader**_

_**Buzhenina - A slow-baked ham dish, a Russian recipe**_

_**Solnyshko - Little sun (term of endearment)**_

_**Milaya Moya - My sweet (term of endearment for little girls)**_

_**Katyusha - Affectionate diminutive form of Katya**_

**Review please!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Hey there! Welcome to the fourth chapter of Blood and Crushed Veneer, and, I promise that it starts soon, but could you just read this, pretty please? **

**Now, I can't claim to have the best track record of leaving a review for every story I favorite or alert, but I'm trying to get better, because, after these first three chapters, I understand those authors' frustration. I'm extremely grateful for all the alerts, but could you please review as well? **

**Disclaimer: Don't own the Avengers. Do own Katya, thank you very much.**

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After the dead are burned, after private tears are shed by those that have lost friends, sisters, allies, Feliks calls the remnants of the girls to the meeting room, which, before, has always felt packed. Today, it feels too empty.

Katya shifts uncomfortably, and begins to pick at the scab starting on her arm from where she was– grazed by a bullet? Or maybe she scraped it falling.

She hadn't thought that Feliks would be well enough to speak, let alone hold a meeting, considering how he was found, bleeding from four holes in his body –shoulders and knees, she remembers, and she thinks that she's lucky to have gotten out of that cell alive– but he walks out like nothing's happened, struts to the front, and she hears the gasps that rise and fall around the room.

He stops in middle of the floor, and turns to face them, a grim smile inching its way onto his face. "I am so proud of you, my girls. You fought, you protected, and you _won_. And now, my darlings, we have a hostage above all others. The Black Widow has fallen to the Guard!"

There's a smattering of applause, but he notices the lack of enthusiasm.

"What is it, girls? Why are you not celebrating like me? This is an exciting time for us all!"

There is silence, and he bellows commandingly, "Tell me!"

An older girl, Sveta, asks from somewhere near the back, "Were you not shot, _Lider_ Feliks?"

The same grin returns, and he replies, "Yes, my lamb. I was. The Widow shot me, but has she bested me? No, for, girls, I am like you. Shoot me, and I will heal. Obviously," he gestures to his body, which looks remarkably whole.

Katya presses the heels of her palms into her eyes, presses hard until she sees stars, because she can't quite shake what Galina said.

_His pet_. How was she his pet?

Feliks continues arrogantly, "We need to assign a…caretaker for our hostage. Any volunteers?"

She opens her eyes to see him staring at her, his smile gone.

He says slowly, "Katya, dear little Katya, what about you? Are you up to babysitting our _friend_?"

He practically drawls the last word, and she wonders what she's done now. She knows she can say no, face the criticism of her peers later, but she feels compelled to accept his challenge now.

He wants a pet?

He'll get a wild animal.

She sets her chin and nods once, curtly.

He smiles again, and says, "Wonderful. You've proved yourself a worthy survivor, Katyusha."

He drops his gaze, returns to surveying the group as a whole, an extension of himself, and she feels like she's just walked through fire, getting to the other side burned and ruined but whole.

"Training will be doubled. We are missing near half of our ranks, and as such, we will fight doubly hard, be twice as good. Understand?"

There are nods, some mutters of, "Yes_, Lider,_" and he waves them off, releasing them to breakfast.

On her way to the door, he catches her arm and says, "Serafina, may I speak with you for a moment?" The cold smile is firmly in place when she looks up at him, and she nods weakly.

He lightly tugs her way from the mass of girls, to the other side of the room, and he says, "You will bring Ms. Romanova her meals before you eat your own, understood?"

There's no room for disagreement –oh, what has she done?– so she nods.

"Good."

She turns to leave, but comes to a halt when he calls, "And Serafina?"

She turns slowly, and asks, "Yes, _Lider_?"

"Do not trust her. She will…poison your mind against the cause, yes?"

His eyes are dark when he says this, and he's staring straight through her. Katya nods, but she doesn't think he notices. He's still staring when she hurries off to the dining hall.

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"…Oh, and here, take this, too, but hide it until you're downstairs." Cook presses a plastic container into her hand and smiles, saying, "When she was here, they were her favorite."

"You knew her, Cook?"

"Yes, _solnyshko_. I did. I've been here forever, remember?"

"She…she is good, right?"

"The best, Mariya. She got away. Do not listen to what Feliks says, what Pavel says, what the other girls say. You listen to me, and Galina, and Sofia. And you treat her with respect."

Katya nods, and readjusts her grip on the tray of food in her hands, tucking the container into her pocket. "What's her name?"

Cook looks up from the dough she's kneading and with a strange look in her eyes –is that pity? –, answers, "Natalia. Natalia Romanova. But, respect, remember?"

Katya turns on her heel after nodding, and throws a brave smile of her shoulder as she goes.

Every person in the dining hall is staring at her as she walks through, eyes following her every step. Helenka looks worried, and she eyes her gun as a silent reminder for Katya. Inna looks expectant, like she's just waiting to hear her scream as she dies.

When she door swings shut behind her, she lets out a breath and pauses, looking around to ensure she is alone and then retrieving the plastic container.

It's candy, gozinakh, and she frowns. Cook's been holding out on her. She slides it back into her pocket, and heads towards the stairs. She balances the tray carefully on her palm, using her other hand to steady herself against the wall as she descends.

The walk down the hall is shorter, without Feia staring coldly at her, even shorter without worrying about her life. She stops outside the door, and, remembering what Cook said, calls out, "Ms. Romanova? Are you awake? I have your breakfast."

"I'm awake."

She sounds tired, and Katya wonders slightly worriedly if she's just woken her up from a nap. Before she taps in the passcode, she adds the container of gozinakh to the tray, setting it next to the kasha. Then she sets the tray on the ground, not wanting to chance dropping it, and types the code, _matryoshka_, in quickly. The door beeps and clicks open, and, after picking the breakfast back up, Katya nudges it open with her foot.

She figures that, after setting the tray on the little desk in the corner, she could, she's sure, just walk out without another word. But that doesn't seem right, especially not after Cook's urging for respect.

Ms. Romanova is watching her as she places the food on the desk gently, and when she turns, she tells her, "It's just kasha, but the container is gozinakh. Cook said you liked it."

Ms. Romanova smiles briefly, before frowning and asking, "What's her name?"

Katya reaches back into her memory –she's heard it once, she's sure– and answers, "Vera, I think? She said that she knew you when you were here?"

"Vera Gusyeva?" Katya nods, and Ms. Romanova asks, "How is she?"

"Good, I suppose. Old."

"She was a sparring coach when I was young."

Katya feels her mouth pop open in an 'o' of surprise, but to be honest? She doesn't quite care, because Cook? As a sparring coach? The idea's almost laughable. She tries to picture it, but all she sees is the little old, white haired woman she knows shuffling over to someone with a look on her face akin to an attacking pit bull.

And that's when she does laugh, a little huff of laughter and disbelief that elicits a smile from Ms. Romanova, and makes her question her own sanity. Which, yeah, she does on a daily basis, but _still_.

She snaps her mouth shut and composes herself quickly, and says in a controlled voice, "I suppose I'll see you at lunch."

She dips her head by way of farewell and walks out as quickly as her abnormally short legs will carry her, which is rather quickly, even if she stumbles a little when she shuts the door.

When she gets back upstairs, breakfast is mostly over, but then again, it's always been a quick affair, the girls scarfing their food down as quickly as they can without choking. She runs into the kitchen and accepts her breakfast from Cook wordlessly, takes three bites, and half-yells, "Done!" as she drops the bowl down on the counter.

The day's training has been canceled, as she finds out when she bursts into an empty training room, and the girls are allowed free time. Which means that the ones that are wounded severely are to report to Nurse's office, and the others are to keep themselves out of trouble.

Katya all but drags herself back to the dormitories, and stumbles to her bed, dropping into it and realizing, for the first time today, that she is resolutely and unabashedly exhausted. She falls asleep without any trouble.

If she were more coherent, she'd be excited.

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**Alright, so, I've just reviewed the last few chapters, and realized that I threw in a few phrases and terms in Russian, and I didn't leave a translation. So, I'll go back and edit, but for now, here are today's translations;**

_**Gozinakh - Walnut honey candy**_

_**Kasha - Russian porridge**_

_**Matryoshka - Lady (or the popular Matryoshka Dolls, your choice)**_

_**Solnyshko - Little sun (term of endearment)**_

_**Lider - Er, well, leader**_

**And, after that, I hope you enjoyed, and even if you didn't, please review?**


	5. Chapter 4

**Alright, I'm going to feed you guys the same partyline I've been feeding to all my readers; I hadn't planned on updating, like, at all, for a few weeks. W****hy, you ask? **

**Well, a lot has happened to me and my family, recently, the most jarring being the suicide of my uncle. I had planned on taking a leave of abscence from writing because of this, in order to grieve and clean up my act/life. **

**But, it's physically hurts me to not write. So, instead of being a grown-up about this and talking to my therapist, I wrote, then rewrote the next ten or so chapters of this story and two of my other, older stories that have been neglected. So, that's good, right?**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed. Except for Katya, of course. :)**

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Natasha doesn't immediately realize she's sleeping, but it seems that she's hit the right balance between exhaustion and dehydration, where consciousness if fluid. It's only as she takes in her surroundings does she recognize that this is a dream, but it's not quite computing, because this seems more real than the cell she's in.

The frigid winter air stings as it whips her hair around, and at this point, her nose is all but frozen. She's beginning to rethink her decision to stay in Russia.

She could be anywhere in the world –preferably somewhere _warm_, but details can be worked out later– anywhere at all, and she's decided to stay and raise Kita in Russia, of all places.

She's an idiot, she thinks.

She glances up at the sky for a moment, just one brief moment, to clear her head, to eye her apartment building on the horizon, and in that small, insignificant moment, her world changes. In that moment, she sees a sickeningly familiar curl of smoke, and she _knows_. Maternal instinct, mother's intuition, whatever, it doesn't matter, because it's not helping and it's not changing anything.

She breaks into a run, even though the assassin side of her is telling her to stay calm and figure out what's happening. She nears her building and shoves her way through the gathering crowd, elbowing some pushy bitch in the nose and eliciting a string of colorful words in return. She thinks that she mutters a few back at her, but right now, not much is sinking in.

She presses forward until she's reached the front of the crowd, is about to go right through the barrier that someone's set up –god, she can see the firefighters pulling a body out– but someone blocks her path, pushes her back into the crowd and tells her something about if there's anyone left alive, they'll be brought out.

These words do not compute, because this is her daughter he's talking about, her world, and there is no _if _about it. She has to be alive, has to be one of the few dragged out, singed but alive.

If her mind were clearer, if she wasn't just thinking about how the last time she saw her daughter, Kita was red faced and sobbing, if she were more herself, she'd fight the man holding her back a little more, might break his nose, if she wanted. But she doesn't want to, not now.

She stands there at the barricade for hours, even as the crowd disperses, even when she's one of the few there, just her and a couple of old women clutching handkerchiefs and sobbing.

She hasn't cried yet, nor does she cry when the last of the firefighters run out and half of the building collapses. She doesn't cry at the sheet-covered bodies, both adult and child sized, lined up on the sidewalk, one of them tied to her, she knows. She doesn't shed a tear when she gets a call from the police to tell her that her child is dead, as if she hadn't just watched it all happen.

Nearly twelve hours after the fire began, she's handed a single box of salvaged things from her apartment. There isn't much at first glance; a few kitchen utensils that she doesn't remember having, a book from her living room, a t-shirt. These do not make her cry, either.

It's what's buried at the bottom that breaks her. Underneath the innocuous items, there is a baby blanket, made of what was once soft, white cotton, and it still is, really, though now it's stained with smoke.

An edge is burned– she chokes a little. It's the edge that her daughter's name was embroidered on, in looping green letters. It had been an impulse buy, a few weeks before Nikita was born, when she decided that she ought to have at least a _blanket_, and god, this shouldn't hurt as much, but it does. This, this right here, it's the reason she never wanted children.

There a couple of pictures at the very bottom of the box, one of her in front of what could be either the Parthenon or one of the Pyramids. She remembers taking it, remembers thinking that Kita would love it later on. And there is one picture of Kita, burned at the edges and smudged with soot, but still identifiable.

The other stuff gets dumped in the trashcan of the hotel she's staying at for the time being, but she folds the blanket around the two pictures, tucks the little package of sorts into her bag.

And then she opens the vodka.

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Katya wakes up with a skull-splitting headache, and she realizes she didn't take her medication today– yesterday? She glances around the dormitory, notes the faint snores from around the room, and decides that it's the middle of the night, so she hasn't taken it for a day. She didn't think the effects would be so immediate.

She sits up –oh, no, _very _bad idea– and she flops backwards again, thanks to the rolling wave of nausea that flattens her. Her stomach flips, her heart constricts, crawls up her throat just to plummet back down as the feeling ebbs.

She tries sitting up again, slower this time, with a hand pressed to her mouth as a precaution. The last time she vomited on Inna, she had woken up with her hair gone.

Once up, she tugs at the end of one of her curls, and frowns at Inna's sleeping figure. It's been a year, and her hair still hasn't grown back to its former length.

She reminds herself of what she fought to get up for, and pushes her various revenge plots to the back of her mind. Staggering to her feet, she bites her lip to keep from crying out. The pain intensifies, and it feels like she's drowning, but that's crazy, right? There's no water even in sight.

She shuffles down the wide aisle between the beds, tries to be quiet for the recovering girls, and stumbles out into the corridor. By the time she makes it to the kitchen, she thinks she might very well be dying. It's getting so bad, she's sure that it can't get any worse, and she's wrong, she realizes, and the pain reaches a crescendo.

She drops to all fours and crawls to her little alcove, where she stashed a blanket and pillow when she was three and the attacks happened near daily. She curls into the fetal position and drops her head, her forehead meeting her kneecaps with a satisfying smack, the impact jarring her.

She feels like she's on fire, literally, can feel the flames lapping at her back, can smell the smoke like it's _right_ _there_. Her ears ring, with what could be screaming, but could also be bad singing. She wonders if she ever went to a burning opera, or _something_, because there's got to be some explanation.

Even though her eyes are shut, she sees things, the images that she's always seen; flames and falling debris, a pair of arms stretching out towards her. The skull tattoo on one of the arms seems to shimmer, twist in the light.

These images, as she knows they will, morph into indistinct blurs, the leftover effects of her medication dulling them, so that's there's a flash of red here, a muffled voice there, the sensation of something soft against her skin.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the attacks comes to its close, and Katya opens her eyes. It can't be much more than twenty minutes after she got up, but she doesn't really want to go back to the dormitory, which seems disturbingly vacant with only nine out of the twenty girls there. Instead, she sets up shop, curling up under the blanket and reciting what she knows, what she absolutely knows for certain, until her eyes slid shut of their own accord.

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**I hope you enjoyed! Review please?**


	6. Chapter 5

**Disclaimed, but Katya is _mine_. :)**

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After her exhaustion induced rest, Natasha doesn't sleep. She plans, and worries, and goes back to the central thought, _she's alive, she's alive, she's alive_. But she doesn't sleep.

So, when her second day on the compound dawns, she's awake for it all, for the pounding of footsteps that can be heard overhead as the Red Room's survivors start their day.

It's not too long after that, that there's a knock and a familiar voice saying, "Ms. Romanova, I–." Katya cuts off abruptly to yawn, then continues, "I have your breakfast."

She responds flatly, "I'm up," keeping all emotion out of her voice.

The door clicks open, and Katya shuffles in, her red curls pulled back into a short, messy ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes suggesting that she hasn't gotten much sleep either. There's a cobweb hanging off of her hair, and Natasha thinks it's fitting at the moment, as the little girl looks like a doll someone's left on a shelf for too long.

Katya drops the tray of food on the little desk with a bit of a clatter, flinching at the noise, and she mutters, "Sorry. Underestimated the distance."

She yawns again, this time causing Natasha to yawn as well –damn those chain reactions– and then says, "Cook made blinis. I'll be back at lunch," before shuffling out.

After she eats –the food is better than when she was a student there– there's not much to do. She tries fixing her comm, as when they confiscated her weapons, they hadn't taken it from her, but it's still jammed. She thinks it's because she's underground, or maybe the compound is just unreachable past a certain point.

She sighs and settles into counting the cracks on the ceiling.

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"You must strike harder, Katya, to make the blow count. Again."

Pavel shoves her towards the dummy again, before forcefully arranging her limbs into an acceptable fashion. She is supposed to be learning to crack someone's windpipe, supposed to be learning to kill in more ways than she already knows, but her mind is elsewhere, her movements tired and lazy.

She tries again, stumbles on her jump, falls a little short, and grits her teeth at the laughter her mistake raises. She glares over her shoulder at a group of girls, but one of them, Inna –wow, she's bounced back quick– calls, "It's okay, Katka, we know you aren't quite up for this."

There's another round of laughter, and she sees red.

Katya whirls around, marches past Pavel, and strikes with her right arm, once, twice, and then once with her left, and the dummy's head rolls off, severed by a clean cut. The others get very, very quiet, and she huffs, feeling vindicated.

Pavel grunts, his way of telling her that she did good enough, and she steps back to the end of the line, watches as two aides run and replace the ruined dummy. The class goes through the rounds, everyone performing perfunctorily.

Soon enough, training ends, and the lunch bell rings, sending the girls scurrying for the dining hall. Katya wants to join them, or, rather, join Helenka and Dessa and the few other girls that don't make her life miserable, but she'll be damned if she lets Feliks think that he's broken her.

Instead, she marches purposefully into the kitchen, where Cook hands her the tray wordlessly.

She's about to leave, when Cook catches her arm and whispers urgently, "Take this, Mariya. You can't let anyone see it."

She shoves something metal into her hands, and Katya looks up at her in confusion before glancing down at what was handed to her. It is a phone, or an MP3 player, or a very, _very_ small computer, she's not completely sure.

She looks back up at Cook, who simply says, "Tell her to hide it, after."

After she slips the contraption into her pocket, Cook gently shoves her out of the kitchen. Again, she's the subject of everyone's attention, though it's a bit less nerve-wracking than before.

In the cells, however, she's expecting silence, and is surprised when it's not. There's a melody, faint and almost eerie, echoing in the hall. She frowns– she swears she's heard it before (maybe during one of her lessons?). She stops in her tracks, listening and finally arriving at the realization that it's someone –Ms. Romanova– singing.

Singing?

She didn't think that assassins sung.

She listens for a few moments more, something deep within in her recognizing it (from where, she doesn't know, and it's _killing _her). Finally, she starts walking again, breathing in time with her steps.

She calls out softly, "Ms. Romanova, I have your lunch?"

"Come in." The woman's voice is thick, as if she's just woken up, or has been crying, though Katya thoroughly doubts the latter.

Instead of trying to figure it out, though, she just types in the code, balancing the tray on her arm. When the door opens, she slips in quickly and sets the tray down before retrieving the metal thing Cook gave her.

She holds it out to the woman, and says, "Cook told me to give this to you, and tell you to hide it 'after'."

Ms. Romanova takes it from her, and stares at it for a moment, before telling her, "Thank her for me, please."

"Yes, Ms. Romanova." She's not sure what compels her to do this, but as she turns to leave, she stops and turns around again, and asks, "Do you…do you want a book, or something? It seems a bit over the top to keep you locked up in here and not give you anything to do."

Ms. Romanova raises her eyebrows. "Wouldn't you be going against your _Lider_'s orders?"

Katya ducks her head sheepishly and kicks the ground with her good foot before admitting, "_Lider_ Feliks already dislikes me. This will not change much."

"Don't get yourself into trouble on my account." Is that concern she detects in Ms. Romanova's voice?

"It's fine. No one pays much attention to me anyway. Enjoy your lunch," she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.

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It's been two days, and they've yet to go looking. Clint shifts in his seat again, as Fury drones on about responsibility and dangers and difficulties, and a bunch of other political BS about why they can't rescue Natasha right away, why they ought to give it a few weeks.

He winces a little as his bruised ribs protest the movement, and Steve flashes him a look, roughly translating to _sit still __**now**__. _ But that's just the general idea.

Bruce sends him a sympathetic look, and Tony keeps eyeing him as if he expects him to lose it, right then and there, and shoot Fury's good eye out.

He's getting a bit sick of everyone walking on eggshells around him. Yeah, his partner's captured, and yeah, he got his ass handed to him by a pair of teenager girls with guns –_big_ guns, he'll protest vehemently– but he's not _unstable_, or anything, because it's not like the woman that he…oh, fuck it, the woman that he loves is probably being tortured _right. This. Minute,_ by a psychopathic bastard that killed her parents, and her daughter. Because who would be on edge about _that_?

Fury finally walks out of the room, followed by Hill and some newbie agent who looked incredibly nervous when standing in the same room with five out of six –he winces at that thought– of the Avengers. Smart kid.

Once Fury's mostly out of earshot, he states, "He's a fucking idiot."

Stark nods his assent at the statement. Bruce purses his lips and huffs a little, his way of showing his annoyance with Fury's lack of concern.

Steve flinches at his language, less noticeably than six months ago, but still rather obvious, but he says firmly, "We can't just leave her there."

Stark rubs his hands together, and at the moment, Clint's a little worried, 'cause he looks something like a mad scientist (or a kid in a candy store. He's still not sure which is worse, when it comes to Anthony Stark), and he says, "Well, let's get to plotting, boys."

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**Translations:**

_**Blinis - a sort of Russian pancake**_

_**Katka - offensive, diminutive form of Katya**_

_**Lider - leader**_

**Review?**


	7. Chapter 6

**Disclaimed.**

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What do assassins read? Katya scrunches up her nose, lost in deep thought as she stares at the bookshelves of the library, and is oblivious to the door opening.

"Katya, sparring started."

She jumps at Helenka's soft voice, and whirls around, heart pounding though, really, she hasn't done anything wrong.

_Yet_.

She's just looking at books, right? Nothing bad about that.

Nervously, she fiddles with the hem of her uniform shirt, the dark grey fabric wrinkling in her hands. Helenka raises an eyebrow at her and asks, "Are you alright?"

"'M'fine, Lenka."

"Then come on, slowpoke. Galina's getting worried, I'm sure."

Helenka locks arms with her and pulls her towards the door. Katya sends one last look over her shoulder at the books –Tale of Two Cities? Anna Karenina? The Hunger Games?– before walking towards the training room.

Once she changes into her sparring uniform, the coaches pair her with Dessa, and that's fine, because she's fought her before and fought with her before, so she knows how the girl works, knows her tells. She knocks the girl's legs out from under her in ten minutes and then helps her to her feet.

Dessa flashes a small smile in response, before moving on to another partner, another girl in their level. Katya moves to the sidelines, like she usually does when the sparring coaches are working with others and can't be bothered with the little redhead who no one ever really sees fight.

Twenty minutes pass, and, when she's halfway through with counting the bloodstains on the ceiling –_93, 94, 95_– Sofia walks over, and asks, "Have you beaten Dessa?"

She nods once, continues counting even as Sofia sits down next to her and asks, peering at a gash on her arm that she doesn't remember getting, "Have you had Nurse look at that?"

She shakes her head, not feeling up to talking.

Sofia lowers her voice, "Katyusha, you mustn't put these things off. It could be infected. Go, now. And then just go to Cook, when you're done."

When she doesn't immediately obey, Sofia nudges her off the bench and points her towards the door. Slowly, she begins walking away from the sparring sessions, and she's nearly to the door when she sees a flash of blonde hair just before she's kicked in the gut.

She stumbles to a stop, swallowing her groan of pain, restrains herself from doubling over, and sends a glare in her attacker's direction, only to see Inna laughing at her and returning to her sparring partner.

Katya's fingers twitch, even though she has no gun on her person–

But still.

It's nice to imagine a pretty, pretty bullet smashing through that pretty, pretty skull, staining that blonde hair a dirty red.

She huffs once she's outside the room, slides her fingers through her own hair as she doubles over in pain. She brings a lock of her hair around so that she can study it in the light. It looks sort of bloody, in the harsh fluorescent lighting, has the right shine and depth, though it's just on this side of rusty.

But, whatever.

She can bemoan her hair color later.

When the pain fades to nothing more than a dull throbbing, she steels her nerves and shuffles down the hall, pausing every few minutes to brace herself against the wall and breathe. Finally, she makes it to the medical center, and Nurse looks up at her and tut-tuts quietly.

Nurse is a slim, dark haired woman, who would be incredibly beautiful if she didn't scowl so much. Katya can't quite guess her age; she has one of those faces where you really can't tell, since she doesn't seem to get any wrinkles, _ever_. She's nice enough, but very detached when it comes to the girls. Katya supposes that's how she has to be, considering how easily one can just…disappear.

Nurse pushes her onto one of the examination tables, her fingers cool as she prods the sensitive skin around the gash, checking for anything in the wound. How has she gone this long not noticing? It must have been from the battle, though it may also be from when she was stumbling around the compound in her pain-induced haze.

"Ekaterina, this wound is several days old. Why have you not seen me sooner?"

Also, Nurse refuses to understand that her name is not Ekaterina. It is simply Katya; not Yekaterina, not Katherine, not Ekaterina. But, then again, considering how many other names she's called, she thinks she ought to be grateful that this is at least close to her actual name.

She mumbles, "Didn't notice it," keeping her voice low, and Nurse doesn't seem to hear her, and if she does, she doesn't acknowledge the statement, just brings out a needle and thread.

After swabbing the area with antiseptic, Nurse stitches the wound shut without warning Katya when the needle would pierce her skin, so she bites her lip and tries not to flinch. It takes a while, because Nurse is nothing if not precise, and she undoes some stitches that don't line up perfectly and redoes them, irritating the already sensitive skin, but finally, she knots the thread neatly and makes Katya hold her arm out from her body so she can wrap gauze around the suture.

"Don't pull them out," is Nurse's only instruction, so Katya hurries out.

She's not quite up to dealing with Cook's overbearing mothering, doesn't want to really want to return to sparring, even though she doesn't think any of the coaches would allow her.

She could go find Pavel in his quarters, volunteer for extra one-on-one training, but she's never felt quite comfortable alone with her trainer.

And, though she's sure there's a million more productive things she could do, like getting in for extra ballet practice, or finding the mathematics instructor and working on her multiplication tables, but she doesn't want to do any of those things, so Katya decides to return to the library.

The library isn't all that impressive, just four walls lined with books and three bookshelves in between. She makes her way to the back wall, the only one with fiction, because she doesn't find non-fiction all that interesting, and assumes that everyone thinks the same. Because, honestly, who would find books on the rise of Stalin interesting?

Katya's so lost in her contemplation of the books –she's picking one for Ms. Romanova, as well as one for herself, for the nights she can't sleep– she doesn't notice the soft footfalls behind her.

When someone clears their throat, she whirls around, stifling a scream with the hand of her uninjured arm, and her heart rate does not return to normal when she realizes it is _Lider_ Feliks.

He gives her a reptilian smile and asks neutrally, "Bored, Serafina?"

She shakes her head silently, hoping that it's the right answer, but he walks to her side anyway and studies the wall of books. He glances at her arm and states, "You've been excused from training for the day, I hope."

"Yes, _Lider_," she answers quietly, even though it wasn't really a question, she doesn't think.

He tells her, picking a book of the shelf and handing it to her, "Take it. It was the favorite of one of our…_previous_ students. It's an eye-opener, Serafina." He pats her shoulder and walks away, and it is then that she glances down at the title.

_Lord of the Flies_.

She's never read it, and has no intention to do so, but Masha read it, once, and told her about it, and she's been terrified of it ever since. And he _wants _her to read it?

It's then that it connects in her mind, and it shouldn't surprise her that much, because he's _Lider_, and he knows all, but–

Aren't the basements completely unwired? No cameras, no bugs, nothing.

She slides the book back onto the shelf quietly, grabs The Count of Monte Cristo instead and tucks it under her arm, leaning up to grab Charlotte's Web for herself.

It's supposedly about a pig.

Sounds fun.

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He's never told anyone the reasons he had behind not killing the Black Widow when he could. He's let them speculate, take their best shot at figuring it out, but he's never told, not a soul. Mostly because it's not his secret to tell, and when Tasha decides that she wants to tell, then that's her decision (though he thoroughly doubts that day will come).

He had tracked her for days, finally following her to a small cemetery on the outskirts of Mytishchi, where she stood out in the open, completely unprotected, and kneeled to touch the grave in front of her lightly.

And he couldn't explain it –in all honesty, he still can't– but there was something in the way she held herself there on her knees, a tenderness in the way she dusted some dirt off of the stone, and he found he couldn't let his notched arrow fly through the back of her skull, like he had planned.

He watched her for a few minutes, feeling like he was intruding on a moment meant to be kept private, when she called over her shoulder, "Shoot me, already."

Her English was perfect, as expected, though lightly accented, and he frowned at the back of her head. He didn't say anything, just dropped one of S.H.I.E.L.D's cards and walked away.

He can't say he was surprised when she turned up in his hotel room, later that day, card in hand and a look on her face that made him reach for his sidearm. The rest was a blur of limbs and blood and bruises, and eventually they reached a stalemate, and neither of them won, and she asked quietly, from where she was standing across the room, fists still held up in front of her, "You get vacation time as an agent?"

He never learned whose grave she was at, not until Budapest and both of them nearly dying, and she'd emptied an entire bottle of Russian Standard on her own, and then it all came out, and he was very glad, then, as she leaned into his arms of her own drunken volition, that he'd made a different call.

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* * *

It's a phone. A very, _very _sturdy phone, capable of calling someone outside of the compound, presumably. And, quite frankly, Natasha has no fucking idea as how to operate it. At this point, it's been, at least from her calculations, four hours since Katya brought it to her with her meal, give or take a few minutes, and she hasn't even figured out how to turn it on.

It's small and thick, black or very near to it, and metal with a small screen that refuses to light up. She sets it on the desk and stares at it, wildly hoping that it will simply burst into flames, or just turn on, or _something_.

It does nothing of the sort, of course, because it's a phone, and does not work unless someone operates it.

The lock to her cell clicks open suddenly and she grabs the phone and stuffs it under the mattress quickly, relaxes into the chair and schools her expression to her carefully crafted blank slate, all just in time for Lebedev to saunter in, looking remarkably whole for someone that has recently been shot in all four major joints.

She refrains from making a remark about it, instead stares at him coldly, her lips set in a thin line.

Lebedev smiles at her, and she notes that his hair is graying, and he says, "Natalia. It's been too long."

She re-crosses her legs and shifts so she's more comfortable, and waits for him to continue.

He leans against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest, and says, "Ten years, I believe?"

He clucks his tongue.

"Too long. You were so good, Natalia. _So_ good. I know; I watched you improve, watched you become the Black Widow."

His eyes travel her body, and she's used to that from men, but she's inexplicably creeped out by this, because he's not leering, not undressing her with his eyes; he's sizing her up, appraising her.

Planning her death.

Lebedev continues, "Now you are just one of many. These girls, they are the next generation. My father was a stupid man."

He begins pacing the room slowly, each step methodical and planned.

"He had many, and focused on one; you. But when you only have one, your failure becomes spectacular. Your success is simply based off of that one and how well you can control that one. Which, obviously, was not that well."

His smile fades into a calculating smirk and he says, "I am smarter than my father. I have many, and I will keep many as my projects, my little killers. And when you are eliminated, the name of the Black Widow will be shared amongst them and their protégées. But _they_ will be well-behaved, yes?"

He stops in the middle of the room, hands clasped as he studies her and she studies him right back.

Lebedev's smirk widens once again as he says, "I hope you enjoy your caretaker's company. Katya is one of my favorites; works hard but hides her skill well. Quite like another girl I once knew."

He begins pacing once more.

"I hope that she will one day lead the program. Show more loyalty than her mother. But do not worry yourself over her future. You will be dead long before that day arrives; perhaps even at her hands. I would consider that a blessing, if I were you; she never drags her kills out. Good afternoon, Natalia. Your dinner should be here soon."

He turns and leaves, just like that, his monologue over with. The door clicks shut behind him and she relaxes, lets herself be horrified at his statements, and then begins to wonder what ulterior motive he might have as to telling her all this, aside from trying to intimidate her.

She brings out the phone and starts again, punching in every pass code she can think of.

Not long after, a soft voice asks, "Ms. Romanova?"

"Come in," she answers, pushing the phone to the side of the desk. Katya slips in, the tray of food balanced on one hand and, true to her word, a book tucked under her arm. Natasha takes the tray from her, then the book, and glances at the cover.

Her lips quirk up into a small smile and she asks, "The Count of Monte Cristo?"

She looks up to see Katya make a face, and the girl answers, "It was better than some of the other options."

Natasha asks, "Have you read it before?"

Katya nods, her red curls bouncing with the movement, and she asks, eyeing the phone, "Have you figured that out yet?"

Natasha flicks her eyes to the object, and scowls, "Not yet."

"Can I see it?"

Natasha hands it to her, and watches as she alternates it between her hands, testing the weight and then studying it. Her brows knit together as she thinks, and, finally, the little redhead says, "Cook has this verse from the Bible; she reads it when she's cooking, I think. 'They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death.' Revelations 12:11. If this is hers, then maybe…"

She taps the numbers in, and grins proudly when the phone trills and lights up. Natasha doesn't feel too put out over the fact that a seven year old can crack that puzzle when she can't, because Katya obviously spends more time with Vera than she ever did as a student, and without that knowledge she'd have never gotten the damn thing to turn on.

Katya hands the phone back over to her, and her smiles fades as she says, "_Lider _told me that I shouldn't trust you, that you were dangerous. You don't look very dangerous."

Natasha won't lie to the girl, won't claim that she's not dangerous, but she's also completely certain in her knowledge that she could never do anything to harm Katya, so she instead just purses her lips and looks away.

When she looks back up, Katya's studying her, and when their eyes lock, the girl looks away sheepishly and says, "I've never met anyone with the same color hair as me. All the other girls, they're all blonde or have brown hair."

She's tempted to reach out and tuck the few curls that are in Katya's face behind her ear. But then again, she was also sorely tempted to inflict as much pain on Lebedev as possible during their 'simple' extraction, and look where that got her.

Instead, she says, "It's a…unique color."

Katya's smile is renewed and she waves and says as she walks out the door, "I'll see you in the morning, Ms. Romanova. Enjoy the book!"

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**Review?**


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